


Legend Has It

by jammeke



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post 5X13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jammeke/pseuds/jammeke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have you, by any chance, seen a boat around these parts?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legend Has It

Elena was _this_ close to stamping her foot. 

It wasn’t a lady-like thing to do, she supposed, but then, she wasn’t exactly a lady (didn’t feel like much of one anyway), and she had a good reason—a very good reason—to be cross with the world right now. Stamping on it might get it to be fairer to her from now on.

This was the fourth time this had happened, and she was getting rather sick and tired of coming to the lakeside to find yet another boat missing. There was only so much a woman could take. 

She’d stumbled across the lake by accident one day, during one of her many attempts at eloping (which were never successful because just how was one supposed to leave behind one’s father?), and right from the very beginning, she’d been fascinated by the sparkling lights dancing above the water. She suspected she wasn’t meant to know the lights were there, for every time she leant forward in her saddle to take a closer look, they quickly disappeared, only to appear again when they thought she wasn’t looking. Supposing lights could think, obviously. Either way, she was on to them and their neat little tricks. Had been from the start. 

To get that closer look she so desperately longed for, she’d begun building herself a boat. She hadn’t a clue what to do—had only ever found herself climbing trees before, not using them for manual labour—but soon discovered working with wood was a lot of fun and something she was actually good at, and before too long, the boat was finished and ready to float. 

Of course, Grunhilda’s frantic cries reached her ears just as she was about to push the boat into the water, and so she hid it in the undergrowth and vowed to come back soon so she could finally learn more about the glowing lights. 

The next time she’d come to the lake, the boat was gone. 

Never one for giving up, she’d started working on a second boat—a more beautiful one, if she did say so herself. Practice made perfect, after all, and after several months of working on this new vessel, she had almost managed to convince herself the first boat’s disappearance was for the best. 

Almost.

She got side-tracked by having to marry Arthur Pendragon for a bit, not to mention being freed from the fairy that had apparently lived inside her for her entire life, and by the time she felt well enough to start thinking about her future anew—and had distinguished between her own desires and the ones the fairy had whispered into her mind—the boat had all but rotted away in her absence.

The third boat took less time to make. She was becoming a master boat maker; so skilled she supposed she might start asking money for it—if only she were allowed to practise the craft of boat-making for a living—and she was just getting excited about the prospect of finally getting to see the sparkling lights up close when the boat disappeared again. 

Honestly, she’d been _very_ close to just giving up right then and there, convinced there must be some higher power that did not want her to find out about the floating lights above the water—which, as it happened, looked exactly like the sparkling dots she used to see in Grunhilda’s eyes sometimes, but Elena preferred not to dwell on that.

Not one for defeat, though, she’d started working on a fourth boat. This one was going to bring her to the middle of the lake or, so help her, she would swim there and tread water until the lights would whirl down to her eye level and apologise profusely for capturing her imagination and making her go through so much trouble. 

And now— _now_ —the fourth boat was gone as well. Gone! Nowhere to be found. And she’d looked, oh, she’d looked; searched the entire area, she had, for surely, even if someone had borrowed it, the only place they could put it to good use was in the lake itself? But no, there was nothing floating around the lake.

Apart from the Isle, that is: the enormous Isle with a tower on top she was sure hadn’t been there the last time she looked. Whirls of mist swirled around it, trying but failing miserably to hide it from view. It was as if the mist was in on the complot (that likely involved confusing Elena to the point where she swore off boat-making forever not to mention going out for long rides on her own)! It was silly to think about, and Mithian would probably fall over laughing if Elena ever told her about her suspicions, but Elena had seen stranger things in her life—had had stranger things _inside_ her in her life—and she wasn’t fooled for one second: an Isle had appeared in the middle of her mystery lake, and it had not been there before! 

“Ugggh.” She kicked the nearest rock and reached for her head with both hands. What was she to do now? Build another boat to row to the Isle? What if this boat was taken from her as well? Perhaps she ought to start building one at home and then have someone bring it over to this place with father’s carriage. It would be worth the extra effort (and her father’s infuriatingly indulgent looks) if it meant she wouldn’t have to start from scratch _again_ afterwards. 

“You seem frustrated,” someone said. 

She whirled around, hand reaching for the dagger she carried at her hip. Not too far away from her stood a tall man she had never seen before. He looked old and peaceful, and did not appear to be a threat at first glance, but she was not about to let her guard down just yet. Never letting go of the dagger, she took a step towards him. 

“Who are you?” She eyed him curiously. “Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you approach.”

The old man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose you can’t have. I have been here for a long time,” he said.

“Oh.” Elena tried not to let her unease show. How had she not noticed him standing on the shore? “Well. Have you, by any chance, seen a boat around these parts?”

“A boat?”

“Or four?” She sent him a hopeful look. 

The man’s hand clenched around the staff he was holding. He looked away from her and gazed out over the lake. So lost in thought was he that she did not dare repeat the question.

After a long moment, he looked back at her. “I have.”

“Really?” She let go of the dagger and all but skipped over to him. “Do you have any idea where they are now?” 

He didn’t answer her; gaze on the lake—no, the Isle—again. When she came to stand beside him, about to shake his arm so he would answer the question, she was brought up short when she saw the lone tear trailing slowly down his cheek. 

“Um. Are you. Oh gods.” She petted him awkwardly, concern replacing all thoughts of boats and annoyance. “Is there—can I—are you—” She shut up then, realising he wasn’t listening to her; was lost in a world of his own and beyond her reach. 

“I suppose it is a comfort to know,” the man said after a while, without looking up, “that you were the one to build them all.”

“What?” She let go of him. “Did you… did you take my—what?” 

He sighed and shook his head. “Thank you, Elena,” he said softly; so softly she had to lean in to hear his words. “For all that you’ve done. I knew I could count on you. Arthur did. When he—”

“Arthur? Arthur Pendragon? But he’s—” _dead_ she didn’t say.

The man’s expression didn’t change, but she was certain she saw his shoulders drooping a little lower still.

She felt sorry for him, suddenly, very, very sorry; so sorry she could not quite put the gravity of the emotion into words. 

“I shall,” she said eventually, “stop building boats then. If it makes you happy.”

She couldn’t be sure, but for a moment, it almost looked like a small smile fleeted across his face. “I should like not to see another boat anytime soon,” he admitted, tilting his head to the side. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

She nodded, staring helplessly at the side of his face. “Yes. Well. I’m just going to—I’m just going to leave now.”

He nodded silently.

“Alright. Good. I’ll just be—yeah.” She turned on her feet and walked away, not stumbling over her own feet for once; lost in thoughts so grave she thought she couldn’t bear it—but someone had to think these thoughts, didn’t they? The old man probably hadn’t asked for thoughts of Arthur Pendragon and his death either.

She wasn’t sure what just happened, and she wasn’t sure what happened to Arthur Pendragon, but she was certain of one thing, and that was that this man had known Arthur, and that he had taken her boats, and that the two were somehow related—and that these thoughts were more comforting than they had any right to be.

She hadn’t known Arthur Pendragon very well, nor had she been particularly bothered about his Kingdom or his Kingship. Tales of his round table had reached her father’s court’s ears, though, and she remembered being proud of him sometimes, and of all that he’d achieved after stepping out of his father’s shadow. 

She hadn’t been a big part of his life, and that was alright, seeing as she’d turned down the opportunity to be just that, but perhaps she’d played a small part in his tale after all; a part she was destined to fulfil from the very start. 

That notion did not make the knowledge of his early death easier to ponder on, but it did make her stop and think—and maybe, just maybe—smile a little as she recalled Arthur and the choices that defined him… and the Kingdom he’d left behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following prompt:
> 
> _Who builds these boats that Merlin keeps setting on fire? What is his/her reaction to returning to the lake constantly for a day's fishing and finding yet another boat sinking in the middle of the water?_
> 
> _I feel that we all deserve some crack after the finale._


End file.
